Max California's Strange Encounter
by SheenaBean
Summary: Language, mild slash storyline, cross over of Quills and 8mm with Joaquin Phoenix's character Max California meeting a man who is very much like...the Marquis de Sade!


_**Max California's Strange Encounter**_

Hard Spank finished early that night. It was 11:30p.m. and the dingy club called Larry's Hideaway was practically empty, save for a few stragglers that Max could make out through the haze of cigarette smoke and lurid red lights. Zip, the drummer, pounded the last few thumps on his bass drum, and Nicky ripped through the last chord of "Snaky Sue" on his guitar. This was their usual finale. After a final scream into the microphone which reverberated like a cat's-howl off the brick walls of the joint, Max California waited as a few pathetic hand claps ensued.

_What a joke_.

Larry the owner, with his beer-belly and Harley Davidson T-shirt, chomped on a cigar with catatonic boredom.

"Max, you guys suck," he bellowed from the bar, "How am I supposed to keep people in this place! They all start leaving as soon as you assholes hit the stage. This is your last week here, I swear to fucking Christ."

The microphone squeaked as Max tossed it to the stage, "Thanks a lot, Larry."

"No, I'm serious Max, "Larry growled as he started to clean the bar, "Christ, it's not even midnight yet. Look at this place! It's fucking deserted!"

Nicky and Zip exchanged sullen looks as they started to pack up their gear.

"This place is a piss-hole anyhow, "Zip grumbled quietly, his white-blond hair falling into his eyes, "Nobody but pimps and zombies ever come in here—that's not exactly the audience we're looking for, Max."

Max California sat down on the edge of the stage, kicking the trash that littered the floor. He took a minute to look out over the seedy haze of the place, and a figure in the back of the bar caught his attention.

It was an older man, middle-aged probably. He held back just enough to seem sinister, like from vampire leering in the shadows trying to get a better view. His hair was longish but not quite gray, and it was held back from his head by what looked like a black ribbon. He seemed like some strange aristocrat from a movie set down the street, or better yet, some figure out of the Hollywood Wax Museum. Who was this guy? When the light hit him just right, a pair of scintillating gray eyes could be seen, practically undressing him. Max looked down at himself worriedly. Tight black leather, and a skin-tight red and black vinyl shirt. Max thought he screamed 'rock-star', but it really just screamed 'fetish.'

The man started to walk towards the stage.

"Oh, great, "Max mumbled, quickly pulling out a clove cigarette

This wasn't the first time Max California had been approached by men, but it usually happened when he was at work at the Adult Bookstore. The night just kept getting worse!

_Time for the cold shoulder_, Max thought. Nicky and Zip were no help. They were already packed up and ready to leave.

"Hey Max, Zip and I are going over to Zelda's tonight, "Nicky called, guitar case in hand, "Wanna join us?"

_No wonder this fucking band was going nowhere, with friends like these! _Max thought.

"No thanks, guys, I'm going home to work on my lyrics a little more. I'll catch ya later."

Nicky shrugged and plodded out of the club with Zip as his side, a little more than amused by Max's poetic urges, "See you tomorrow night, Larry."

"I can't fucking wait, "Larry shot back sarcastically, lifting own of his own bottles of whisky to his mouth, "Max, get the fuck out of here."

Max California winced, jumping down off the stage, "I'm going, Larry."

"Haven't we met before?"

Max turned, his eyes narrowing a bit. _Wasn't that the oldest line in the book!_

The man had approached him, his fingers held out with skeletal elegance. Max now noticed the oddness of the lace cuffs and coifed velvet that the man wore, almost like a costume. A strange expression of mirth and recognition was on his lips. His voice was tinted with an accent. Was it French?

Max could not help but blurt out an amused giggle, "Look man, I'm straight, OK? I'm not in the mood to get hit on right now, so just fuck off, please."

The man seemed wounded, "I'm the Marquis, don't you remember me? We spent years together, at the asylum of Charenton. You loved me then, I know you did. Strange we should meet now, so many years later."

Max looked around helplessly for an escape. Hollywood Boulevard on a Saturday night. What did he expect?

"Look, Pops, I don't know what you've been smoking tonight, or where you picked up this outfit of yours, but I haven't got a fucking clue what you're talking about, " Max headed towards the door, grabbing his own electric guitar and flashing Larry a glare, "See you tomorrow, Larry."

The strange man who called himself the Marquis followed Max California hastily out onto Hollywood Boulevard.

Max walked fast, hoping to lose this lunatic by sheer acceleration.

"Wait, wait for me, Abbe!"

Max ground his teeth, "Just my fucking luck."

Max kept up his pace, and reached his shit-hole apartment. He had just inserted his key into the flimsy, graffiti splattered door when he felt a hand clamp down upon his shoulder.

He spun around defensively, his heart racing, "Jesus! Hey man, look—"

The Marquis reached out and grazed his cheek with a cold finger, the gray eyes of the man burning with something altogether supernatural, "I just want to talk to you, dear boy, that's all. Let me inside, please, just for a few minutes. That is all I require."

Max couldn't say he felt threatened. On the contrary, he felt more seduced than anything else. This man looked frail enough. He could fight him off if he had too. Maybe the guy just wanted to feel him up a bit. He'd done as much for money before. Besides, with the Hard Spank gigs going as shitty as they had been lately, he could probably use a little extra cash!

"Alright, but just for a minute, okay Pops?"

Max let the man inside his apartment, while he set down his guitar case and headed straight for the refrigerator for a beer. He turned around, surprised to find the Marquis looking him up and down with rather hungry eyes. The man himself was slender, a bit of a paunch about the waist, but he balanced himself with an elegance and poise that seemed strangely ominous.

"So, what were you saying Pops, about seeing me before?" Max took a swig of beer, sat down on the edge of his sofa, "I don't remember ever seeing anyone like you. Maybe you've seen me at Adult Bookstore. That's where I work. That must've been what you meant."

The Marquis grinned devilishly, "Do they carry any of my books there by chance?"

Max looked back at him dumbly, "So you're a writer, Pops?"

The Marquis entwined his lanky fingers in delight, "A pornographer, you could say, dear boy. I am the Marquis de Sade. You should remember by works quite well from the old days. The 120 Days of Sodom and Justine, just to name a few. Tell me, do you still sell these works of mine?"

Max squirmed, "I've never read any of them."

The Marquis scowled, "I wonder why. It seems they'd fit into your lifestyle quite well. I was a genius in my time, you know. A flagrant rebel against the frigid morality of society, you could say."

"So, what you're trying to tell me is that you _really think_ you are the Marquis de Sade, right? That old guy who used to write kinky books in prison back during the French Revolution and all that?"

"One and the same, dearest."

"What ever turns you on, mister, "Max lit another cigarette, and set his beer down, "Well, I think you could have found a lot better over in West Hollywood. This is not really my scene, Pops. So maybe we'd just better make this real quick and then you leave, okay?"

_Anything to get this guy out of here! _

Max California, still holding his cigarette, fell down on his knees with a thump and pulled the man towards him, his hand fumbling with the old-fashioned buckles that kept the soft velvet trousers up around the Marquis' slim pelvis.

"So how much money is this worth to you, Pops? I'll take a fifty, but I need to see the money before I get to work, alright?"

The Marquis licked his lips with feverish anticipation, "Money?"

Max California froze dead, his soot-black eyelashes blinking in amazement, "Yeah, I'm not going to suck your cock for free, Pops. What do you take me for anyway?"

"Keep talking like that and I won't need to pay you anything, "the man lifted Max's chin with a crooked finger, "I'm hard already."

Max flinched, "I'm serious, man. I am not going to do this for free. Isn't this why you wanted to come in here in the first place?"

"No, but it's an added bonus just the same, "the Marquis answered.

Max California shot to his feet, flustered and embarrassed, "You better leave, Pops. I can't do this tonight, I'm too tired. I think I'd probably vomit. You want anything else—a beer maybe?"

"No, but I'll tell you why I followed you," the Marquis continued, "You are the image of a man I knew decades ago in Charenton, dear boy. You are the embodiment of him in every way. The eyes, the voice, the black hair, even the mouth. Not sure about this, though, "the Marquis flicked at the silver hoop on Max's eyebrow, "But, I must say this erotic wardrobe of yours suits you much better than a cassock. My own imagination could never have dreamed up the glorious perversions of this new era. The whips, the chains, all this bondage. I wrote it before Napoleon himself had yet conquered Europe. And now, everywhere I look, I see these decadent creatures, in books, in theatres, on stages. They're everywhere, delighting in the pain and pleasure of sex. It seems I won the battle after all. My poor long lost Abbe de Coulmier. If he only knew what the world had become! His God is dead, and we all dance on his grave."

Max California had listened to all this in bemused silence, "So you think I'm like someone from the past. You mean, like reincarnated? Cool. What was I back then?"

"You were a priest, the most beautiful priest I'd ever seen. I wanted to fuck you, but you were too pious to have any part of my little schemes. It's a shame, really. It would have done me a world of good, you know. To fuck you like some delicate virgin, just out of a Catholic seminary school, just ripe for the taking. It's a thought that still excites me."

"Alright, now your starting to scare me, Pops, "Max had visions of his body, slashed and mutilated on his very own sofa.

"You needn't worry, dearest. It's only a fantasy."

"Good, then you and your fantasies can get the fuck out of my apartment, okay? I think you're off your rocker, man, if you don't mind me saying so."

The Marquis chuckled mischievously, "I do want something, and it requires very little effort on your part."

"Yeah? "Max said.

The Marquis stepped forward, curling a cold hand around Max's neck, and pulling his head forward. He kissed him on the lips, his tongue swirling in like a savage snake to taste the roof of his mouth. It was a shivering and frightening kiss, more like an attack. But the Marquis released him before Max felt the inclination to bolt towards the door.

"I always wanted to do that, "the Marquis admitted, "But I never got the chance to."

Max California reeled, taking a serious drag on his cigarette with his trembling fingers, "Jesus Christ..."

The Marquis huffed at these words, "I still can't get away from that beastly God of yours, though, can I. I thought by now at least you'd let that silly religion of yours go, "the Marquis sneered, "I'll allow you that one small victory I suppose."

"It's way too late for anymore of this shit, man, "Max California said, tripping over his guitar case and opening the door, "Please, do me a favor. I get enough of this every day at work from all the losers that walk in the door. I don't need any more of it here at home. Just forget you ever came here, Pops."

The Marquis gave Max California a bow, swooping his velvet-covered arms out widely, "As you wish, dear boy. I have plenty of places to still explore tonight on this street, where my company will be more than welcome I'm sure. Take care, dear-heart, "the Marquis stopped to look Max in the eyes, fingers rapping on the edge of the door, "Even though I regret not being able to pay you for services that would have rendered me quite _beyond_ rigid, I thank you nonetheless for your hospitality."

"My pleasure, "Max California replied sullenly.

"No, no, dear. The pleasure was all mine..."


End file.
